Doth the lady protest too much?


I am neither a psychiatrist, nor a psychologist, and apart from a career in medicine, hold no official accreditation in counselling. Heaven only knows, my own Black Dog is never far away, and anxiety gathers little dust as it waits expectantly in a brightly lit corner of my closet. And yet I am still a sounding board in my retirement, it seems.

A colleague from my student days somehow recognized me in a prairie coffee shop, three days drive from my coastal home. I’ve never been good at faces, but sometimes a voice will riffle through the fading file cards in my head and find a memory lightly pencilled in.

I was sitting in a dark and unobtrusive corner of a Starbuck’s near the university in Saskatoon when a voice caught my attention. It was talking quietly on a phone, so I probably wouldn’t have noticed, except that it was at the next table and its owner spilled coffee on me during a nervous laugh.

“I’ll call you back,” she whispered into her phone and quickly grabbed the few napkins in which she had dressed her cookie. “I’m so sorry,” she said, greeting me more with her hands than her voice, as she attempted to wipe the coffee off my tee shirt.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, taking the napkins from her hands and finishing the wipe myself. “Stuff happens…”

She sat back suddenly and fastened her eyes on my face like ocular nappies. “Don’t I…”

But her name came to me first. “Susan?”

She nodded enthusiastically, still not sure of herself. Then, as I was about to remind her of my name, “G…?” she said, and touched my arm excitedly.

I nodded, surprised, but impressed that she’d remembered my nickname from medical school. I have to admit that mine was the easier task, though -Susan, the valedictorian of my graduating class, had made a name for herself in oncology, and most doctors, no matter their specialties, would probably have read at least a few of her papers. I certainly had.

We joined our tables and sat reminiscing. There was a lot of ground to cover -I had recently retired after 40 years in practice, but she still seemed to be in the thick of things.

“I’m just having a quick coffee before I have to chair a conference at the U,” she said, checking her watch. “But I still have a few minutes,” she added, and smiled reassuringly. “What have you been doing since we last met?”

I knew she’d ask, but I hesitated before replying. My career had been a satisfying one, for sure, but certainly not as illustrious as hers. “I specialized in Ob/Gyne,” I said with a little shrug. “In Vancouver, actually, “ I added, knowing she would wonder what I was doing in a Saskatoon coffee shop. So when one of her eyebrows posed the silent question, I was quick to respond. “I’m retired now, and since I was born near here, I thought I’d do a little catching up.”

“Vancouver?” She said the word with a wistful look in her eyes. “I gave a presentation out there last year, G… I’ve always loved the west coast.” She sighed and rested her eyes on me again. “I’ve often wished I’d settled out there rather than in Toronto, you know…”

“There are probably more opportunities in Toronto.” I said. “I mean, it’s the center of the universe, and everything…” I meant it as a joke, really -the quintessentially Canadian retort whenever the city is mentioned- but it had a chilling effect on her and she shrugged apologetically.

“If I were still in practice, I’d likely be picking your brains at this stage, Susan,” I said, suddenly ashamed of my thoughtless remark.

She smiled, but still apologetically, and she sat for a while, quietly nibbling on her cookie. Suddenly I could feel her eyes resting on me again. “Was there ever a time in your career when you felt like an imposter?”

I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Sometimes when I was trying to justify a diagnosis, or a procedure, to the young resident doctors… Especially when they’d tell me that my colleagues did things differently.”

She took a deep breath and a little smile surfaced briefly on her lips. “I feel it more and more as I get older.” She concentrated on her cookie for a few bites. “It’s like I’m supposed to be the expert, but things move so rapidly in my field it’s difficult, if not impossible, to keep up -and I’m always afraid that one day, someone is going to put up their hand at a lecture and point out that I’m not current anymore.”

I stared at my rapidly cooling coffee and nodded. That -plus age, of course- played a large role in my decision to retire.

“My psychologist partner calls it my ‘imposter syndrome’ and laughs at me,” she said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t take it very seriously -I suppose that’s why I unloaded it on you… Sometimes I just need to talk about it with someone.”

“The welcome stranger…?” I rolled my eyes to show I was kidding.

She smiled half-heartedly, but I could tell she wasn’t finished yet.

“After all these years, I wonder if the mask still fits,” she said, more to the cookie than to me. “That’s what reputation is, you know: a mask.” She finished off the cookie and sat back in her chair. “You work for years to achieve it, all the while wondering if it is starting to fray -if it still conceals the face underneath.” She chuckled, then scraped her chair back from the table. “I often think I should get out while it’s still intact. While it’s still worth something… Like a hockey player retiring after his team wins the Stanley Cup.”

She checked her watch and stood up, but as she stooped to pick up a rather heavy looking briefcase, her eyes interrogated me once again. “I have to leave for Toronto right after the conference this afternoon, but were you planning to attend? Lunch is provided. Maybe we could meet?”

I smiled warmly at her suggestion, but shook my head. I’m retired now; I no longer carry a mask. “But if you’re ever in Vancouver again…” And yet, even as I spoke, I could sense a change as she rummaged around in her head for an appropriate Saskatoon conference persona.

She nodded, hugged me briefly, and hurried out the door. But I could see her pulling her disguise back on as she left.

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